The Equation
by Aly Teima
Summary: How does John Watson fit into the dynamic between Sherlock and Moriarty?  We are about to find out...
1. Chapter 1

The Equation

_Disclaimer; Oh how I wish I owned at least BBC's Sherlock and the gorgeous characters Moffat and Vertrue have reincarnated but I don't No money is being made from this story. Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and others are the property of the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle._

_Inspiration for this story came in several different forms and follows the timeline pre-Richenbach *sniffle* yet post Baskerville. _

_The first inspiration, the title and others, comes from the Sherlock Holmes' sequel, "A Game of Shadows" where Holmes informs the Professor that John Watson was now, 'out of the equation'. Of course all that really does is show Moriarty how John means to the detective. _

_Second inspiration is the multiple kidnappings of John by Mycroft Holmes. From "Scandal", 'you're right, he thinks its Mycroft' and of course the scene which got my pulse racing (c'mon, admit it, for just a moment you suspected) where John is taken at Mycroft's club, by force, from "Richenbach"_

_Finally, I really did research this story and so if some things seem 'improbable' forgive me but I did do my homework concerning Moriarty's, ahem, methods._

"So is this" John's voice sounded steely. He never sounded that way, except when he held a gun and Sherlock was threatened.

Apparently it wasn't just physical threats.

Sherlock barely heard the exchange, still slightly relieved that following John only led to this. Someday, someday soon, he would strangle Mycroft for his heavy-handedness.

His text sounded out and the conversation below stopped. Sherlock made his exit.

John had stuck around during his 'danger night'. He stuck around for a lot more than that.

Sherlock heard the doctor come back but he, back facing the room, made no movement to show he knew, or cared.

John took a few steps toward the couch, sighed deeply and retreated.

"_Why would I need you?"_

"_No reason whatsoever."_

How was it that even the small things seem to be adding up in Sherlock's mind? He didn't need a keeper or even a friend. He needed an assistant, a sounding board with at least two brain cells to rub together.

John Watson was a good assistant, even Sherlock would admit that. It was his uncanny capability to keep shouldering his way into Sherlock's carefully sterilized life that was making the detective…..uneasy.

Uneasy? Or frightened?

_Resentful_ Sherlock snarled to himself. One Mycroft was bad enough.

_Except he's not like Mycroft is he? Or you? Not at all._

Sherlock Holmes did not feel guilt, he did not feel pity and he honestly didn't care what the older man did and did not do concerning his own person.

_He's the wrong combination, like an unsolvable equation. Brains and nerve, yes, but too much heart. Too much compassion. Weak._

Sherlock actually slept that night. He had nightmares and couldn't remember them.

John looked concerned the next morning and Sherlock, nerves already frayed, snapped at him.

John hadn't been rising to the bait as much lately and he didn't now. He just looked at his friend for a long time and Sherlock knew that the man could see right through him.

John was out the door but Sherlock's temper had risen.

His phone buzzed some hours later.

He looked down, gasped, then bolted out the door, somewhat dressed. It would do, anyway.

_SH_

_An Apple a day…._

_JM_

Below, there was an address.

It wasn't far, not comforting to Sherlock.

The detective's heart was pounding in his ears when he reached the open market. Apples, apples….

He slammed into someone and started to say something rude.

"Tsk, Mr. Holmes. Your manners?"

The shorter man pulled back his hoody.

Jim Moriarty.

The two men stared each other down in the middle of the pedestrian traffic.

"Over here, good sir."

Moriarty gave a mock bow and gestured toward a nearby bench.

Sherlock followed him, feeling like he was walking through cement.

The moment they sat down, Sherlock wasted no time.

He grabbed the front of his archenemy's hoody and yanked.

"Where is he?"

"Oh please, Sherlock. Always so suspicious. Why the accus-"

"WHERE is he?" Some customers glanced in their direction.

Moriarty snorted, looking bored. He gingerly pried Sherlock's fingers away.

"Honestly, do you even know the simplest clichés? Away, as in away Sherlock. I don't have your sweet little pet."

Sherlock didn't know whether to believe him but a slight wave of relief hit him.

"Since he's always trotting along behind you, however, faithful, scrawny mutt, I wanted an opportunity for a one on one."

Sherlock's fury at Moriarty's insults increased.

"I just missed our little chats." Moriarty's grinned increased, something unsteady flashing behind his eyes.

"What do you have to say to me?" Sherlock hissed.

"I'm bored."

Sherlock started, the familiar words cutting through him.

"Yes, bored to tears actually. I need a new game but the ones I tried to play with you haven't gone so well."

"What games?"

Moriarty sighed dramatically. "There, you see? Where was the fire-eater seeing my hand in everything, always?"

Sherlock thought back. Standard crimes, below standard actually. Beneath his notice he actually thought.

Of course.

"You knew I'd ignore them, since when do you need an excuse?"

A look of mock hurt crossed the other's face. "Am I really that bad Sherlock? I've only just upped the ante."

"Save it."

"Well, then, here we are. The final standoff, even though you, naughty boy, didn't play the first rounds."

Sherlock felt something cold prickle down his spine. _The Fifth Pip_. "No."

Moriarty laughed, it was scornful but still joyous. It set Sherlock's teeth on edge.

"You do realize how easy it is, yes?"

"Mycroft Holmes."

Sherlock got the brief satisfaction of finally surprising Moriarty.

"Your bureaucratic brother? That's your ace Sherlock?"

"He is, obnoxious, overbearing, pompous ass not withstanding, the British government. Eyes, ears, nose to the ground, everywhere."

Moriarty's eyes flashed with hate. "Not even John Watson could make you run to your brother for help."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "I have surprises too, Jim Moriarty."

"Do you? And you think you can outmaneuver me in this game?"

"I don't have to; I'll play your game."

Disbelief flittered across the other's face. "You play your own way and frankly, I've grown tired of it all. I'm….."

"Bored, yes I heard you the first time."

"So?"

_He's getting unimaginative. Not a good sign._

"I'll play; I'll play by the rules set. I'll play like someone who knows your mind."

Moriarty's teeth were bared.

"Because it's just the other side to mine."

Now, a genuine smile. Sherlock preferred the grimace.

"But I have a rule as well. Oh I'll play your games and I'll make them as, fun, as you wish. I get bored to, Mr. Moriarty."

Moriarty yawned sarcastically and gestured. "And…?"

"I have one rule."

"Gods, how dull. No hurting good Dr. Watson? Really Sherlock, you were my last hope, how could you have become so predictable?"

Sherlock didn't care what Jim Moriarty thought of him. There were only a few things he cared about…..

"He is out of the equation."

An eyebrow quirked. "Is he?"

"Yes and then your pathetic attempt at entertainment will provide endless opportunities. Even sociopath's can be men of their word."

Moriarty regarded him for awhile.

"What?" Sherlock snapped finally, nerves reaching breaking point.

"But I like this little game, Sherlock. I like it better and better. I am slightly disappointed, though.

Y'know, even the loyal pet showed some unpredictability. Not much, but for a standard clod he could surprise. Do you know, when my men strapped him to the bomb he never stopped fighting. Even landed a few blows. It was only when he got close, to you, how lovely, that he stopped."

Moriarty batted his eyes at him.

Sherlock hadn't asked John about how Moriarty had taken him that night. Perhaps he just didn't want to know. He had deduced enough and now the same tortured imaginings came back.

John, frightened but stoic, his life in the hands of this mad man.

Moriarty's eyes shone demonically. "So easy, Sherlock. One step out of the door, one cab driver bribed men _brave_ enough to subdue your short, crippled bleeding heart."

Moriarty garbled the last word. Sherlock's hands tightened around his throat.

Moriarty didn't look afraid, he look pleased. His laughter wheezed out.

Sherlock looked at him through slit eyes. "The game, Jim Moriarty, and I will remember everything you said here today."

Moriarty rolled his eyes after Sherlock removed his hands. "Booooring!" He shrugged.

"As for your maths problems, well teach….I thought you were once unsolvable." He sighed and shook his head. "Not so, but I'll do the homework. So many other improbable out there."

"Is that your answer?" Sherlock snapped furiously.

Moriarty's eyes were cold and dead, so very unlike someone else's eyes that Sherlock knew. "It's the best one you will get, Sherlock Holmes."

He pulled the hoody over his head and disappeared into the crowd.

Four and counting nicotine patches weren't doing it. Mrs. Hudson poked her head in, even she was surprised by the amount of noise, Sherlock's endless pacing.

John arrived home, bags under his eyes. He had gotten groceries and take away and gave Sherlock a slight smile when he shook the latter.

Tempting smells wafted out. John was forever trying to get him to eat.

Sherlock's stomach, however, felt encased in a block of ice. He could barely look at John. Moriarty's words echoed round and round in his head and when he looked at John all he could see was what happened to him that night. Because of his friendship and loyalty to Sherlock Holmes.

He couldn't, however, of course he couldn't block out the brief flash of hurt that crossed John's face when Sherlock turned his back. No words of greeting, nothing.

Still, minutes later John called out softly. "Hungry, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth.

_What, would you like me, to make him say, next?_

"Sherlock?" The voice was closer now.

_Your sniper pulls that trigger Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up._

"Sherlock?" John grabbed his arm in concern and Sherlock jerked away violently.

John backed away, hands in the air.

"I'm sorr-"

_This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?_

"How many times do I have to say it John? Don't get into my personal space, don't touch, my god are you really what everyone says? Is this why no woman wants anything to do with you? Why those idiots at the Yard, even, smirk at you? Do you think I want you constantly around, constantly annoying and in my WAY?"

He roared the last but John just stood there, his expressive face laid bare.

Sherlock hadn't meant to say those things. He was afraid. He had never learned to deal with fear in any way and certainly not this kind of fear.

"A bit of an overreaction, don't you think?" John finally spoke.

His voice was trembling but he still held his composure.

And suddenly, Sherlock became even angrier. Just over a year ago, he could deal with Mycroft and Lestrade and the Andersons and Donovans. He'd been free.

He didn't have to watch his heart _Heart, HA!_ Being pulled out, twisted, and abused. Now, he was the weaker player.

Because of _him_. He hadn't asked John Watson to be the sort of person he was, the best person Sherlock knew.

He hadn't asked or expected John to help Mrs. Hudson up and down stairs, remember Molly's birthday and buy his 'shopping' list for an experiment two days in advance.

He hadn't known he would care about the doctor and he hadn't expected it. Now, he was weaker.

Unaccountably and unforgivably, he lashed out at John for being John.

"Why do you feel the need to be so subservient?" Sherlock snarled and John stiffened at the tone.

"Is it the military? Drummed into you? Your own dimmed intellect or just the fact that your dull, pathetic life has to cling to something, anything more dramatic to somehow justify your existence?"

"You disgust me."

The words hung, dark, heavy, deadly and John stood there, shaking.

His face, his eyes, Sherlock would never forget them as long he lived.

Nothing could be said yet John nodded.

He walked _not walked, stumbled Sherlock, see and observe_ to his laptop, glanced at it briefly then went into Military! John. Stiff and formal.

He picked it up and walked out the door without another word.

The groceries had been put away and the take away set out. It looked nice, Again the plea of _please Sherlock, you need to eat, too thin. _But John was gone.

Sherlock stood there for a very long time and John didn't return.

It really wasn't that late, early evening at best, but Sherlock felt it one of the longest days of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

He didn't sleep all night. He paced and growled at Mrs. Hudson who gave him a gesture saying, "I wash my hands of both of you." without a word.

The dark, sickening guilt kept creeping up on him and his constant denials only made it worse, made him angrier.

He was at fever pitch when 9 a.m. finally came and something besides the empty, hollow silence sounded out in 221b.

John phone beeped, signaling its charge was almost gone.

Sherlock leaped off of the couch and snatched it off of the desk.

Bloody hell, the fool hadn't even bothered to take his phone with him but took the laptop?

Sherlock's quicksilver mind made a jump. *Laptop but not the phone. Distracted but not distracted enough to leave everything. Spent the night somewhere, no clothes for the next day but thought he would need an expensive and easily damaged item like a computer.*

He went over it again. Didn't make sense.

John's phone beeped again, a different one. Sherlock looked at the screen, the time the message was sent and blasted off a string of impressive expletives.

_Message sent: 5:50 p.m._

_Number: Unknown_

_JH_

_Your *ahem* willing assistance is needed John_

_MH_

_P.S. check your laptop for further instructions._

Sherlock was going to murder Mycroft slowly. And today was the day.

He punched in Mycroft's number on John's phone.

His brother answered impressively fast.

"Really, John? Personal phone calls so early? Please save the sentiment for my dear bro-"

"You inconceivable ass!"

Sherlock actually heard the jump of surprise behind the phone. Something clicked in the back of his mind but he was too angry to regard it right now.

"Sherlock! Dear god, what do you mean bellowing at me like that? And why are you calling from John's phone?"

"Because _John_ left it here in his hurry to do your bidding." Sherlock didn't allow himself to think of the true, more painful reason John had left in such a hurry.

"What on earth are you talking about? Has it finally happened, has your mind finally snapped?"

Something cold and hard slid into Sherlock's stomach. Mycroft wasn't faking his confusion.

Yet Sherlock plowed on. "Which girl did you use? I know you have a string of them at your disposal, though not for what others may think. What did you try to do now? Bribe? Spy? You really don't gi-"

"Your blathering is wasting my time Sherlock. I have surveillance on the both of you, you know I do and when I have no reason to contact your dear doctor, I don't."

That cold and hard something sharpened and jabbed. "What about his laptop?" His voice had gotten more unsteady.

Mycroft picked up on it. "What about it?" The anger was still there, but the snideness was gone.

"He isn't here Sherlock. I don't know anything about his wretched laptop."

Sherlock still clung on, desperately. "If you're lying to prove how despicable you really are…."

"I'm not lying Sherlock."

Sherlock's breathe quickened. He didn't understand, he understood perfectly. How, where, where, WHERE?

"Sherlock, what has happened?"

Sherlock Holmes hung up.

He sat there for ten minutes and eight seconds. Exactly.

John's phone, battery nearly gone, rang.

_Number; unknown_

He pushed to answer.

There was the sound of an obvious recording.

_Hello Dr. Watson's phone. You have reached John Watson's message center. Since he and his phone were recently separated, we provide top quality service to make sure any missed messages come straight to him._

_He would love to answer them and get back to you as soon as possible. Unfortunately he's indisposed at the moment and probably will be for some time…_

Sherlock closed his eyes.

_He's an internet sensation, you see and about to star in his own breakout role. You have been lucky enough to be invited to a grand screening being played at Scotland Yard. I guarantee, you won't want to miss it. _

The recording hissed on for several more seconds.

_An hour, Sherlock Holmes._

Jim Moriarty's cold voice fell silent.

Sherlock's mind was working at an almost agonizing speed.

He burst through Scotland Yard's doors and thought it seemed strangely subdued. He ran, sprinted towards DI Lestrade's office and burst in without invitation or even knocking.

Anderson, Sally Donovan and Lestrade were standing around Lestrade's desk. They seemed so stiff and didn't welcome or greet Sherlock in any way. They weren't surprised he was there.

"The message, came with the package, said we all had to be here." Lestrade's voice was quiet, like he was soothing a wild animal.

"John's laptop."

"How did you…?"

Lestrade held up a hand. "There's a Wi-Fi link and….no, Sherlock, NO!"

He swung the screen around to look at it and immediately understood Lestrade's warning.

"You don't want to see it." Anderson sounded surprisingly sympathetic. No one at Scotland Yard had anything against John.

Sherlock looked for a very long time, his eyes frightening with rage.

"How long, Lestrade?"

"The package came about a half-hour ago. No one got a good look at the deliverer. Came with a message, saying you would be here and we all had to be too. Came with a website address. We're trying to track its location but it's…."

"Scrambled. Of course it is."

"Also, here…." Lestrade handed Sherlock a note.

_2 – Y = ? It's the unknown factor in an equation that makes it difficult to solve. _

Lestrade's voice had been choppy, to the point as it usually was when he was reciting the facts to Sherlock on a case. Just another case….

John Watson, gagged, had his arms pulled excruciatingly tight above his head. His wrists were handcuffed.

He couldn't really get a purchase on the floor beneath him. *Cement, pipes, moisture on the floor. A factory, a warehouse.*

He was pulled up so high that his shoes scuffled and he constantly lost his balance, held up by his bound wrists.

They were bloody from taking his weight.

Sometimes he did get the slightest hold with his feet, easing the torture from his hands but even with the grainy footage, everyone in the room could see that his legs trembled with exhaustion.

John gasped for air, it sounded dreadful. Then the whole dance began again.

Who knew how long he'd been like that? He was so pale, face lined with fatigue….and pain.

He was in terrible pain.

His wounded shoulder.

Sherlock heard words as though he was underwater, they were muffled and didn't make sense. Moriarty….Moriarty's cruelty and sheer inhumanity.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade grabbed his shoulder, then backed away at what was on Sherlock's face.

"It's him." Donovan whispered.

Moriarty waltzed into view, impeccably dressed as always. John's expression showed his anger.

"Hi there lucky viewers! You made it to the show! Promise it will be a good one, lots of planning went into this one."

He stepped up to John. Sherlock's fists clenched. "Meet our star, Dr. John Watson. He doesn't really have any lines. " Moriarty stepped up and tightened John's gag, giggling when John yanked his head away. "Stage fright you know."

"Now for audience participation."

Moriarty pulled out a phone and Lestrade's rang on his desk.

"Speaker, if you please dear audience."

Moriarty's voice echoed around the room, in stereo with the computer. Even more terrible was the clarity that they could now hear from John, his painful gasping.

"I will kill you Jim." Sherlock's voice was monotone. "Slowly. I will make it last for days."

Moriarty laughed. "Now _that's_ the Sherlock I wanted to play with. So much more fun."

"Do you want to hear the story about your 'ace' Sherlock? Came right from the dear boy's mouth, didn't it? And your sweet little puppy ran right into the dogcatcher's net."

He draped an arm around John's neck, reaching up to pat his cheek.

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!" Sherlock roared.

Sherlock would never forgive Mycroft as long as he lived. John wouldn't have suspected, maybe hadn't tried as hard to escape, being toyed with by Mycroft for so long.

"Your brother cried 'wolf' just one too many times, and now the lamb's been led to slaughter. I've been feeling a bit, biblical, lately in case you can't tell. Oh but Sherlock's figured it out, hasn't he? Always does?"

"Biblical?" Anderson asked.

Sherlock was shaking, badly.

"He's just the right height for all of this. Bet you don't hear that too often, eh Johnny boy?"

John's expressive eyes were enraged.

"He's been doing rather well, all things considered. The shoulder added to the breathing fun, didn't anticipate that, oh, yes I did.

Just can't quite reach the floor, except on, tippy-toe!"

Moriarty twirled like a grotesque ballerina.

"It's the legs that are giving out first, the stretch. Maybe it wasn't so psychosomatic after all, huh Doc? The spasms are getting worse, but a guy's gotta breathe!"

Moriarty got right into John's face. "Of course, you're the one with the medical knowledge, you tell me."

He slapped John, hard. "TELL ME!" He screamed.

"Stop it!" Lestrade barked. He had paled considerably.

"My god, oh my god…" the DI began muttering.

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off of John, struggling to keep his toes on the ground and ease the pressure in his arms, in his chest.

"Others figuring it out, Sherlock? Slow though they might be?"

"He's, he's actually crucifying him." Lestrade's horror could not even begin to match Sherlock's.

"Medical studies have proven that crucified victims didn't necessarily suffocate, it was other factors." Sherlock's voice was robotic, his mind in machine mode to cope for what was happening to his best friend.

"Really?" Moriarty looked amazed. "Wow, that's great news for dear Johnny here."

He patted John on the head. Every time that monster touched John Sherlock felt something break inside.

"So, nothing to worry about, stop this acting." Moriarty held the phone right up to John's face. His gasping and rough breathing echoed throughout Lestrade's office.

"You sick fu-!" Donovan screamed at the screen before Sherlock silenced her with a look.

"Oh, ho! The good Sergeant doesn't approve, eh? You're such a popular little pet." Moriarty made a kissy face at John, pinching his cheeks.

"He's an innocent man and just because _he_ is…."

"Shut. Up. Now." Sherlock's lips barely moved.

"Best take the advice, _Sally_." Moriarty smirked. "This performance didn't invite critics."

He backhanded John viciously.

Donovan backed into a corner, her face twisting. "Sorry, I'm sorry…..Sherlock."

He didn't give her a spare glance, though it was probably the first time he'd ever heard her use his actual name.

"Oh, and there's more fun to be had. Something added to this, equation, that you'll probably want to figure out."

"I already told you I'll play."

"Yes, but _how_ will you play? And how will your mates at Scotland Yard let you proceed?"

Moriarty sneered. "Take me off speaker phone and give the phone to Lestrade."

Lestrade listened, his face stony. "I'm not going to guarantee you anything." He snapped.

He looked to the others, his face actually draining of even more color. "He says to tell you all that if you try to bend or break the rules, he will return the favor. When in Rome….."

Lestrade put the phone back and turned on the speaker.

"So, Sherlock, lovely, you'll be awaiting my next instructions. Don't worry, I'll take good care of your puppy, before he has to be put down that is. Lestrade, you and your forces will be kept informed and do everything in your power to, ahem, enforce the law."

Moriarty suddenly just looked up at the camera filming all of this, his face completely expressionless.

"I said I would burn the heart out of you, yes? I can, and I am. But I'm going to take your soul with it. You said that our minds are one and the same."

Sherlock wished he couldn't see John vehemently shaking his head. "I'm going to go a step beyond that, I've always wanted a twin."

John began struggling in earnest now, lunging at Moriarty and trying to dislodge the gag. His shaking arms let him down and more blood trickled down his elbows.

"Let's keep the show rolling, hmm? You can watch, all access, until his lungs shrivel. Chat with you soon, sexy!"

Moriarty moved off screen but fired one last comment through the room before hanging up.

"Lestrade, tell them what I told you."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a long time, this man who was cold as ice, said rude, no, terrible things. Sociopath.

"We'll find him, Sherlock. You'll find John, you don't have to play this game."

"He was standing on something."

The other three blinked. "What?"

"The floor, it didn't match up."

"_That's_ what you were focusing on? Damn, I know you can be a cold bastard Sherlock but…"

"Shut up." Donovan barked at Anderson.

"John was a soldier, he knows about hostage situations. He has strong arms and could probably have saved his wrists and breathed easier just hoisting himself up and holding on. He was standing on something, he has to stand on it for some reason, maintain some kind of pressure."

"It's to guarantee that he'll smother but John…" Sherlock's voice actually broke here, to everyone's shock. "John would opt for a quick death then a slow, torturous one. So the threat under his feet isn't directly aimed at just him."

"I have to play the game, Lestrade. Just for a little while, just until we find him and we have to find him soon. You heard his breathing, his strength will give out soon then…" Sherlock himself took a deep breath, it shook roughly.

"To help whoever else Moriarty is targeting, for John's sake if nothing else, for what he's putting himself through right now."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and waited.

"Tell me what he said to you, Lestrade."

Lestrade shook his head slowly. "He said, that if I don't use all of my resources to stop you or take resources away to find John Watson, he'll do…."

"As in Rome." Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

"Break legs. But just one."

_AN; Holy crap! Did I really just write this? It was a gut-kicker I'll admit. I didn't really focus on Sherlock's reactions since I wanted to keep him more in character but everyone and anyone whose seen "The Great Game" knows that Sherlock, when dealing with John, does show a great deal of emotion. _

_Poor John! I adore him, he's my favorite, why am I torturing him like this? Oh Angst, writing too much angst._

_I hope I didn't offend anyone with this, just wanted to show what a sick SOB Moriarty really is. Gods, Scott's performance as him is beyond chilling._

Next chapter; I'll play…


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3; I'll play**

**Sherlock, BBC is owned by the genius that is Doyle, Moffat and company. I don't own any of it, don't make any profits, its just an act of love.**

**Apologies for the long delay between chapters, I'll really researching and planning this sucker. Also, I've been attacked by adorable plot bunnies left and right. Kid! John and Kid! Sherlock (read KCS's stuff, oh gods you must) and more Bromance (Ivory Novelist, its not slash but so incredibly moving and realistic, John and Sherlock's relationship) **

**John**

The agony of his body seemed all he was aware of. His shoulder, grinding like broken glass under a boot heel, his legs trembling, then seizing as the hours passed.

He could forgive all of that, forgo most of it, if it weren't for what was directly in front of him, what he was seeing on a small screen. Slightly to the left was a pressure valve, and each time he stepped off it rose a bit.

And it never fell back.

He'd been trying for hours now to dislodge the gag at least, trying to communicate with Sherlock in a more effective way.

Moriarty's henchmen were efficient if nothing else, but John Watson was a very stubborn man.

Moriarty's words echoed in his head, taunting Sherlock and John tried to keep unwanted memories at bay.

_Don't make people into heroes John, heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._

_Ah, I've disappointed you?_

_Consulting criminal, brilliant…_

_I think he wants to be distracted._

_A game, only a game, all a game to him, to Moriarty…all of us just pawns…..NO!_

John shook his head violently despite the avalanche of pain that descended down his arms.

He didn't want those memories, tainted from his pain and Sherlock's desperation. He didn't want the memory of how he'd ended up here either, but it still came.

_John, shaking from anger and, if he was honest with himself, pain, stomped down the steps of 221b Baker Street._

_His laptop was slippery in his grasp and he swore unimaginatively. Several pedestrians turned to stare but he ignored him. For all he knew they could just be more of Mycroft's extras._

_He was tired._

_Tired of being batted back and forth between the Holmes brothers, tired of being Sherlock's verbal punching bag, tired of being hungry, exhausted, constantly on the look out for someone who saw him as something on the bottom of his shoe._

_Something beneath him. Something that disgusted him._

_John stopped and caught his breath, unaware that he was gasping now. Hollowness opened up inside of him. _

_He'd always tried to believe the best in people, his sister, his brothers in arms, Sherlock, hell….even Mycroft at times._

_And now he was jumping to the orders of a man who kidnapped him regularly for kicks. He'd been shot and dumped off like the damaged piece of, equipment, that he was, pretty well forgotten._

_And Sherlock…._

_John knew he was feeling uncharacteristically sorry for himself but he couldn't seem to stop._

_Sherlock saw him as…_

"_Dr. Watson?"_

_Finally, here it was. John turned, suddenly aware of how dark it was where he was standing. No other street traffic besides._

_Definitely Mycroft's style then._

_But, yet, something prickled at the back of John's neck. He'd been a soldier, then in Sherlock's company too long not to recognize, no, see John, see and observe._

_Not a gorgeous woman typing away apathetically at her Blackberry. A man, check that, three men._

_John took a step backward._

"_Now, now Johnny boy, no need for alarm. We just need to put you on a leash, legalities you know."_

_Moriarty's oily voice sounded right behind his ear and John swung without thinking. Shockingly, the small, impeccably dressed man caught it easily and twisted John's arm painfully behind his back._

_He was stronger than he looked._

_He clamped a hand down over John's nose and mouth._

"_Come on, the mutt needs to be muzzled my _friends_"_

_John struggled but he was outnumbered. _

_He was thrown into the back of, a cab?, Moriarty really needed to look up other means of transportation, and his hands and feet tied painfully with plastic ties._

_He tried kicking out and got a swift but painful jab to the stomach for his efforts._

_The only comfort he had, small though it might be, before a needle was jabbed into his neck, was that the two CCTV cameras closest to the vehicle had never turned off. And both had turned towards the escaping cab._

John didn't know what the cameras indicated, if Mycroft was watching and unwilling to get involved or just trying to let Sherlock know what had happened.

Either way, Moriarty had planned on him being caught unawares and Sherlock's reaction towards his brother was apparent even to him.

Sherlock. John squeezed his eyes shut. The doubts of less than 12 hours before seemed so frivolous now.

When he'd woken up, it had been to agony in his wrists. How Moriarty's henchmen had gotten his hands there was a mystery he himself didn't know how to solve right now.

Worse, John could see that the handcuffs were welded shut, as tight as they could be even against his smaller wrists.

He'd been able to breathe all right for the first few hours, but as his arms began to shake and his legs betrayed him, he felt a terrible tightness growing in his chest.

Moriarty, just before starting his disgusting little 'show', had said something that chilled John's blood, even before the twisted game, before addressing those watching at Scotland Yard. This was a game Sherlock couldn't win, the main, though not the only reason he'd gotten John involved.

And the screen in front of him. Another cramp, this one worse and John lost his balance. His breathing, after Moriarty's little bonus, was like trying to suck oxygen from mud.

The valve's needle jostled again, just a little closer to the red zone.

John's fingers continued their dance, he didn't dare keep it up continually, but please, someone, Sherlock please, figure it out.

And soon.

**Sherlock**

Sherlock paced incessantly but no one had the heart to tell him to stop. No one could bear watching the screen where John was slowly suffocating and hearing it was out of the question.

As long as John couldn't communicate with them, listening to him suffer was just making everyone, especially one consulting detective, that much more, distracted.

No, devastated.

Sherlock held John's phone up, then his, then pulled that infernal pink monstrosity out, checking each non-stop.

Finally, finally one beeped, signaling a text had arrived.

Lestrade's.

He looked at it and frowned deeply.

"What, what is it?" Sherlock practically ripped the phone from his hands.

"Sherlock! I, I can't, remember! His instructions…."

"Technically I haven't broken any laws yet so give me the damn phone, Lestrade."

Everyone backed away from the venom in the younger man's voice, they could all hear the undercurrent beneath it. Sherlock's terror.

For a man supposedly above emotions he wasn't controlling his very well. No one was too surprised, however.

Three names showed up, that was all.

Sherlock shook his head. Whatever game Moriarty had started he obviously wouldn't make it easy and the detective, still and he practically hated himself for it, felt that odd thrill of anticipation.

John's phone, (barely charged) rang. Everyone jumped.

Another hissing, like a recording.

"Hi there my dear! Miss me? I do hope your good, pals, at the Yard aren't giving you any help."

Lestrade tucked his phone away, paling.

"I need you to do something for me, Sherlock, and I'm not asking nicely as you're well aware. I've become fond of threes lately, no use asking why. Maybe it's our little love triangle, you, me and the lapdog."

"Bastard." Sherlock hissed.

Everyone within earshot, even Sherlock, actually jumped when Moriarty responded.

"Language, Sherlock, truly."

"How is he doing that?" Donovan whispered but Sherlock shook his head. Not important. Only John mattered.

"In three places, where there are adorable innocents you and I cherish so much, there will be something happening in three hours."

"More bombs Jim?" Sherlock sneered. "Yet you said _I _ lacked originality."

"Not bombs sweet, something extra special I've been keeping in the woodwork. Each little surprise will happen at exactly the same time, or perhaps not. It all depends on you."

Sherlock grit his teeth. "And if we find these places you're referring to?"

"You won't, and it doesn't matter anyway. And there is no 'we' in this equation silly, for you there probably won't be a 'we' for a very long time."

Sherlock felt a surge of complete hatred.

"The places are equally far apart, you could reach one in your time limit, but not all three. And to make it more fun, the control for my grand experiment is in another place entirely."

"And that's where I have to go." Sherlock said tonelessly.

"Very good, such a smart boy. Oh, and because you should know at least some of your, variables, your little Johnny boy will be dead in three hours. The venom that's paralyzing his lungs will have taken full effect then. Couldn't take any chances now, could I?"

Sherlock stared at a point high above everyone's head and willed himself to remain calm, to think.

"And stopping your 'control' is the only way to get the anti-venom to him?" He spat out.

"Ah, ah, two kindred minds should think alike. There's only one way to save him, Sherlock, if even that. You don't stop my little control, you check that all three accidents will happen at the same time."

"Then, you make sure that they do."

**Lestrade**

How was he going to do this? How could he stop Sherlock, or simply not get involved (not an option, Moriarty was very specific) when now not just John's but who knew who many other lives..*children, the sick….he's targeting children*

He'd done it before, but still Lestrade couldn't imagine a mind that evil and cruel.

Even Sherlock at his worst, when they all (and Donovan voiced them) had their doubts about his quicksilver mind and lack of morals, he was no Jim Moriarty.

Except Moriarty was trying to change that.

Either way, he'd succeed. If Sherlock followed through with his twisted experiment, then, oh gods, John's reaction. Everyone in their odd little family, and yes even a hardened DI saw it like that, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even himself, would suffer, then shatter.

But to lose John. To have to witness John Watson, a good man, good friend, slowly being strangled. That would shatter something else that Sherlock swore he didn't have.

Sherlock stared down John's phone as though he could will it to give him answers.

Moriarty was moving slower this time, three hours notwithstanding. He was savoring it.

Finally, a text. Sherlock gave a strangled gasp and threw the phone as hard as he could across the room.

He ignored the shocked looks on everyone's faces, ignored everything and continued pacing. He was muttering under his breath.

He seemed absolutely infuriated.

"Uh, Sherlock…."

"No, NO….He's the cause of this. No, he's the same, on the same level, he…"

"Really, Sherlock. Had I anticipated any of this happening, do you honestly think that I wouldn't have tried to prevent it?"

Lestrade gaped as Mycroft Holmes strolled in. He looked as cool and poised as ever, but his eyes betrayed some concern.

Sherlock stared him down and Lestrade honestly saw murder in the detective's light blue eyes.

"You, you with your bloody eyes and ears, you saw Moriarty take him, didn't you. DIDN'T YOU!" Sherlock bellowed.

"It was too late, Sherlock. Too late, believe me. He planned it, planned on the location, the darkness. After you called, the moment something wrong was realized, he sent John's laptop to me."

"_You_ sent it here!" Lestrade was incredulous.

"I had no choice, his instructions."

"Why, why, you getting involved, with everything?" Sherlock yanked at his dark curls. "Why?"

"Footage of course. It's your, clue." Mycroft paused on the last word and Lestrade honestly thought Sherlock was going to tackle him.

"As for why, the monster responsible for this required that I ask you." Mycroft pulled something out of his suit pocket. A card. Ace.

"It came with the laptop."

"Mocking….of course, just to mock me." Sherlock looked defeated, pale and worn. On a case he was usually all movement and deductions, never stopping, almost giddy with excitement.

Now, and Lestrade never thought he'd believed it, things seemed to be happening too fast for the detective.

Suddenly Sherlock bounded over to his brother, getting up in the other's face. "If you have the footage, show me, let me solve this, then get. Out."

"I can't do that, Sherlock."

"You-"

"Why not, My, er, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade couldn't call the starch stiff man in front of him by his first name.

"Because of you, Detective Inspector."

"Me?"

"I'm aware of this, Moriarty's, instructions and your own dilemma. As my dear brother would never accept any assistance from me rather than the bare necessities, even if his doctor's at stake." An eyebrow lifted towards Sherlock.

"Yes." Lestrade moved in between the brothers just in time.

Mycroft sighed deeply and for a moment he looked older, tired. "Sherlock, no matter I say I know you will not believe me but putting Dr. Watson in harm's way, that…" He rubbed his forehead. Sherlock glowered.

"Detective Lestrade, I'm going to use all of my resources."

"British government." Sherlock muttered.

"All of _my_ resources, to stop you and your team."

"What?" Lestrade was baffled. "_Stop_ us?"

"Those are Mr. Moriarty's instructions, for you to delay Sherlock yes?"

A nod.

"And John will be in the crossfire if you do not. Therefore, I'm insisting that you allow me to distract and delay myself."

*For John's sake.* It hung in the air, unsaid. It didn't need to be said.

Even Sherlock nodded.

"Good, now as for the names." Lestrade just surrendered his phone, not even bothering asking how the elder Holmes knew.

Mycroft handed the phone over to his assistant who Lestrade hadn't even seen come in. Her expression was still detached, bored even as she typed then handed the phone back to Lestrade.

"Well?" Sherlock grumbled. "I could have deduced the names on my own, Mycroft."

Lestrade would have laughed if it weren't for the seriousness of the situation. Sherlock sounded like an angsty teenager dealing with an older brother.

"All three were veterans." Anthea said. Mycroft took out his own phone.

"Were?"

"Were, dear brother. They all died almost a hundred years ago, in the first world war."

"From?"

"Asphyxiation. Ghastly way to die from the sound of it."

Lestrade closed his eyes. *John*

And with a sudden lurch, Sherlock thought he understood just what kind of surprises Moriarty had planned.

AN; I hope Sherlock wasn't too out of character here. Poor detective, he's been hit with a lot. He'll be doing his pure Sherlock thing next chapter, I promise.

Oooh, plot thickens. This is almost too much fun to write, I think it says something about my psyche.

Chapter 3; Breathing is Boring…..


	4. Chapter 4

The Equation

Chapter 4; Breathing Is Boring

Sherlock is the property of the BBC and Moffat and Gatiss. They are true blue geniuses and Martin and Benedict can have my first-born if they make more seasons. I gain nothing but joy, no money here.

_AN; I'm a history teacher and World War I is my main emphasis so I assure you that the gas descriptions are totally accurate, yeeech. Also, I researched both anti-venom (scary actually) and the idea that Sherlock could actually do what he did with the wires and he could, definitely. Trust me, stay calm and believe in Sherlock Holmes ;-)_

Mycroft held the written word out to Sherlock but his petulant younger brother didn't take it.

"Tell me you, somehow, have it figured out." The younger Holmes sneered.

"Moriarty was, at least in this regard, rather obvious."

Lestrade looked between the two of them in confusion.

"Gas, Detectives. This sordid clue is the name of an abandoned factory. And it is quite a distance away. You realize, Sherlock, that this is a trap in the most obvious fashion."

Sherlock's snarl grew. "You cannot be both obese and obtuse Mycroft. They manufactured this; I create the 'explosion' and Moriarty kills John anyway."

Was it the Detective Inspector's imagination or did Mycroft's eyes actually soften? Terrifying to think that _both_ Holmes had a fondness for the doctor.

"Boss?" Sally Donovan came rushing up to him and Greg turned his back on the two brothers.

"Hmm?"

"Half of the CCTV cameras went down in Westminster. We've gotten over twenty calls in the last five minutes."

Sally paused.

"And?"

"And we can't answer any of them, the phones won't dial out, we've been using mobile but it's dodgy at best."

Lestrade spun to look at Mycroft Holmes who had a smug little smile on his face.

"We can't endanger the public Mr. Holmes." He sputtered.

"Oh calm yourself, _Greg_; my people have always countered your amateur policing attempts in the best of times."

Lestrade tried to be offended but three other Yarders came rushing up to him, distracting him with other 'meltdowns'.

He stifled a groan and turned to see a dramatic coat flouncing out the door.

"Sherlock!"

"Let him go Detective Inspector. We're searching for these locations as we speak."

"Damned lot of good it will do if Sherlock…."

Mycroft's eyes were piercing.

"Where is John?" Lestrade asked softly? "*If anyone could know*

"Do you honestly believe I would let this charade continue if I could locate the doctor? Locating seven different forms of anti-venom has been the closest I can come to diluting this maelstrom."

Lestrade was speechless.

"What do you….?"

"Moriarty has played us all well. He won't allow John to survive. He will break Sherlock completely." Even Anthea looked up from her Blackberry at the words, no, the tone.

"Now, I believe, Lestrade, that the other CCTV's have malfunctioned in Westminster and forty percent are about to go off in London proper."

Lestrade allowed himself a very colorful curse.

The consulting detective ran.

John could always keep up with him, amazing considering the height difference. It probably said something that Sherlock Holmes didn't continue to glance behind him, making sure his friend was still there.

Moriarty has poisoned John, tortured him.

He was going to lose him, his John.

The uncharacteristic self-doubt threatened to overwhelm him. He had to do this, had to outsmart the consulting criminal. Despite what everyone (not everyone Sherlock, not now) thought of him, he could not allow the disaster the Moriarty had set up to happen.

The first hour had slipped away like water through his fingers.

He urged the cabbie to hurry, willed the road to shorten. Time was merciless as it slipped into the second hour, ten minutes, twenty minutes.

Finally, they were here.

Mycroft's card apparently still worked for the extravagant fee but Sherlock didn't waste his breathe *Breathing is Boring, boring John, do you hear me? Please, don't, stop* responding to the man's thanks.

He still didn't like cabbies too much, serial killers or no.

Lights flickered on and off in the distance. Sirens echoing from various streets. Mycroft and his bloody power complex.

It was here, not the gas itself, no but the switch that would create a disaster on the scale of events in 1995, 2001, and so on, so forth.

He scoured the walls. He found it in the dusty corner of this abandoned place, where a terrible occurrence had happened so long ago.

Small and overrun with wires. A skull and crossbones etched into the main switch. Six wires, three locations.

Child's play.

He knew, if Moriarty was using all three and knowing the psychopath he probably was, the effects that the gas would have. On the human body, if he could ever bring himself to experiment with the substances, the results are quite dramatic.

Chlorine, which Sherlock now hated just on principle (and smell). Causes the mucus membranes to overstimulate. Blindness, clogged sinuses, burning, and then the lungs begin to fill with liquid. Slowly, slowly drowning in a darkened, scalding hell.

Phosgene, heinous in its simplicity and covertness. Inhaling it like oxygen, only a slight tightening of the lungs, then dizziness, then weakness. Your memories float away, your body is dying and there is nothing you can do to prevent it. You fade, fade away. This, Sherlock can admit to himself, is the most terrifying to him, to lose your mind and will before you ever realized it was happening.

Blue, blue lips and blue bodies in the battlefields of Verdun.

Then Mustard, for the Americans especially. Napalm is so beautiful, chemicals creating a rose of fire and destruction. Mustard gas is not so lovely, the way it melts human skin. The way it eats a body away from the inside out, the lungs hacked out until a soldier is hollowed away.

The blisters, boils, _burns_ on every sensitive part of the body. It, transforms, you.

An explosion would burst the gas out at uncontrollable speeds. No one would be safe. Chemical reactions mixed with fire (because Sherlock of course knew Jim couldn't be torn away from his precious bombs.) Chain reaction.

Sherlock moved three wires together, then three more. Input and output, reverse the polarity.

An implosion wouldn't stop the gas and wouldn't release John from his torment but Sherlock was running out of time.

Ten minutes until the second hour is gone.

Sherlock's hands trembled and he forced them steady.

He had to do this….the implosion; they could find John, before its too late.

Please.

Let it backfire *It will* let the gas contents be pushed out, *it will* and let more lives be saved.

_Will caring about them help save them?_

John. Let Moriarty not find out, not yet.

*He will.*

His gloved hands were on the wires, the current would reverse. Six currents, running in and out, one control.

Experts said it could only be done with three. None of these 'experts' were Sherlock Holmes.

Three containers, hidden somewhere. Three deadly types of gas.

His memory forced upon him John's ragged breathing.

_Don't make people into heroes, John._

He picked up the first two wires. Soon less than an hour, Moriarty had placed Sherlock too far away to witness anything; he knew it wouldn't matter anyway.

Closer.

Sherlock stopped and John's voice suddenly echoed in his head.

"_Of course I trust you, you great idiot. I'd trust you with my life. I _have_ trusted you with it."_

_John stood there, all 5'7 of him, in his lumpy jumper. Sherlock held the folder in his hands, dumbfounded._

_And the doctor was enjoying that, for once, he'd caught his best friend unawares._

"_This, how did you get this John? We searched, and…."_

_John grinned. "Focus visual memory? Ring any bells?"_

"_It was…."_

"_Hidden in plain sight. You're not the only actor here."_

"_John, the importance of this, you….I said I…."_

"_I know what you said Sherlock, and I also know you."_

"_Lestrade…"_

"_Is excellent at what he does, but only you can do this Sherlock, though your uncharacteristic humility is refreshing."_

_Sherlock finally stood a little straighter._

"_Mycroft."_

"_Can sod off." John snapped. "Didn't need his money back then and don't need it now."_

_A new patch in John's trusty coat said otherwise. But Sherlock smiled and felt something warm inside._

"_Do what you do, Sherlock." John's eyes softened. "I believe in you."_

_His mind was _Itching_ to open that folder, to finally get a hold of those records. It could have cost John everything and John didn't surrender what he did and who he was easily._

"_You don't need to tell me what could have or can happen." John said softly and Sherlock looked at him intensely._

_The folder remained unopened._

"_I know, Sherlock that you think that Moriarty is playing some kind of chess game with you. But you're wrong."_

_An elegantly arched eyebrow._

"_It's more than a game to him. You solve problems and move to the next, but he _creates_ the problems. He enjoys hurting and killing and when his true nature really, _really_ comes out…"_

_*I will burn the _heart_ out of you.* A snarl, raw insanity in those dark eyes._

"_Then you'll see it and hopefully finally understand that you're nothing like him. Nothing."_

_Sherlock scowled at the shorter doctor. "John, this attitude of yours is becoming tedious, leave the deducing to me."_

"_Oh for….fine, want me to say it? I'll say it! He knows he can hurt you, hurt me." John actually stopped here, getting his cracked voice under control, "And he wants to! Why do you think, that the fifth-"_

_John and Sherlock both froze. Too dangerously close to what was Never Talked About._

_Glittering water, John's eyes flickering towards him. Sherlock couldn't breathe, John's arm around Moriarty's neck pleading with his friend to run. Sacrificing himself._

_Hopelessness, sheer, raw helplessness._

_Sherlock looked from the folder to his best friend. Because he was, that._

"_I-I, trust you as well, John. When you say, said there is, always another way, well…I believe in you too." The words were so low that John could barely believe he'd heard them correctly. _

"_What in god's name, no…I Do not DO THAT." But John was unabashedly _hugging_ him. _

"_Shut up, oh great detective."_

_He fit right under Sherlock's chin, like, oh nauseating, a puzzle piece. But Sherlock's long arms snaked around and hugged him back._

*Always another way, I trust you Sherlock. Always another way.*

*That was, incredible.*

*Because you're an idiot.*

*I trust you too, John.*

Sherlock's fingers froze.

He pulled out his phone and dialed with lightning speed.

"Lestrade."

"Sherlock, your creeper brother has really outdone himself with this, and-"

"Shut UP." Sherlock barked. "John, on camera, look at him."

Silence. "Sherlock, what are-"

"Just do it! Really, really look."

Movement on the other end and Lestrade's subdued voice.

"Sherlock, he's fading."

"His hands look at his hands."

"What?"

"He can't communicate with us and god knows he must be trying, despite Moriarty. This is John, Lestrade and lives are on the line."

"A-all right, I'm looking. His hands, Sherlock his wrists…."

"Just focus!" Sherlock snapped, not wanting to think about it.

"Sherlock, his, his fingers, they're moving."

Sherlock let out a breath. *Of course they were*

"I, can't, its too fuzzy. He keeps stopping."

He's exhausted, fading as Lestrade said. Too late, NO!

"I'm not sure what he's doing." A pause. Make the connection, Lestrade.

Sherlock smiled when Lestrade bellowed out, "Does anyone know sign language?"

Minutes passed. Sherlock kneeled in the dark factory listening as they pieced letter to letter, all that John could present to them.

"I didn't know John knew sign language." Lestrade murmured.

A bitter smile. "Neither did I."

"Then how…?"

"Just tell me!"

T-R-I-C-K

F-A-K-E

S-W-I-T-C-H

S-W-I-T-C-H

"Switch, that one is repeating, what's switched?" The DI wondered aloud.

Nothing. "Lestrade?" Sherlock shouted.

"He's trying but, Sherlock, I…"

*I trust you John, come on. Let me do this, let me figure this out.*

F-L-O-O-R

C-O-N-T-R-O-L

It didn't even take two leaps and Sherlock had it.

"Sherlock, it's…"

"It's switched, switched Lestrade. Whatever's happening to John and what's here. Moriarty's set this game up well, I activate the gas, no matter if its imploded and John…."

"Sherlock, John's not alone anymore."

Sherlock's heart froze into a hard, painful lump.

"He's still signing." Lestrade whispered.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. Three new picture messages. He had to watch as Moriarty, in each still frame stepped closer to John. A huge man with a scarred face was right behind the criminal.

"Lestrade."

H-O-S-P

Incoming call.

Sherlock picked it up.

"I'm still within the time frame Jim." Sherlock's voice was deathly still.

"Oh, I know, I know but your pet has been very naughty. I've been watching him, of course, it's so much more fun when they make it, interesting.

But against the rules, Sherlock, really."

"How? How is it?" Sherlock demanded desperately.

"Because it spoils my _fun_." The last word hissed.

*You're not like him, Sherlock, not like him and his true nature.*

"Makes no difference, really, the outcome but I don't like having my surprise ruined. You would have gassed your best friend and some of his nearest and dearest and he would have, well, needless to say he _must_ like children because he's been fighting my little contraption for all this time."

Sherlock could barely hear John breathing in the background. It terrified him.

"Not long now. You won't find him. He's dead, as good as dead and so are all of _them_"

"And I'm a man of my word."

One last picture message.

"Moriarty, d-"

The large man swung a crowbar and Sherlock didn't need to hear John scream. He was screaming enough for both of them.


	5. Chapter 5

The Equation; Chapter 5

Disclaimers; Same as previous chapters. All credit goes to BBC and Sherlock creators. I make no money, only a lowly history teacher caught up in Moriarty's web.

For Your Tomorrow

_AN; They gave their today. As stated in previous chapters, I'm a history teacher and a huge WWI buff. I've visited the trenches and am always particularly moved by sentiments such as this. It's not meant to be flippant or even James Bond-y, (though it sounds like it) Just a sign of respect. _

_John is a soldier after all. Also, again, the location, history, etc., are all accurate to the best of my research and my not actually living in London *sniffle* This one's gonna be a long one, folks. To keep track of the action and to get all of the characters in one place, the perspective will shift but I'll always let you know who we're dealing with. Maybe two more chapters after this. Sherlock's gotta deal with Moriarty, after all….*evil grin*_

**Lestrade**

As the live feed died, Gregory Lestrade felt his stomach heave. He wanted to shake the laptop, shout at it and demand that it give him, and his team which had been growing, _yea gods, since when is Mycroft Holmes a member of _any_ team?_ more information.

The screen stared stonily back, gray and lifeless. The images of moments before; a huge, scarred man wielding a crowbar.

John, helpless but still signing. John wouldn't give up, ever. Then the feed died.

H-O-S-P-

Mycroft was on his phone, his PA was tapping at her Blackberry with blurring speed.

"First shipment arrived, sir."

Holmes didn't even acknowledge he'd heard her.

"Boss." Sally Donovan spoke quietly. Her face was ashen under her darker complexion. "The cameras have come back on and the doors downstairs have finally opened."

Lestrade felt very, very tired. *_Moriarty, that bastard. That two-timing, evil, sick bastard.*_

"And the phones?"

On cue, three or four began ringing.

"Also, uh, the elevators have started moving again." Lestrade glanced uneasily at Mycroft. The man completely ignored him, the only sign of strain on the bureaucrat was his constant mopping of his forehead.

"Second shipment arrived." Anthea spoke quietly.

Lestrade glared at his own phone. He couldn't will Sherlock to call him and give him an update. No one could make that man do anything, except….maybe…..

The DI texted, half-hoping Sherlock would actually respond.

-Updates? GL-

-…..-

-Sherlock, what's happening? GL-

Minutes passed.

-Twenty-two minutes left. SH-

-On my way. Gas dismantled. SH-

It seemed so cold and distant. Donovan, behind him, took a deep, shuddery breath.

Lestrade looked at her in surprise.

"Sherlock's a bastard and a freak, but, no one should…."

"Sally?" Anderson, looking meek, approached the pair. (Lestrade would have snorted had he had the heart for it. Anderson was finally pulling his head out and Donovan had rebuffed him time and again for each to move on and hopefully grow up.)

"I found it."

"What took so long?" Donovan barked, harshly.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"While that creeper brother was pulling his power plays, it was the only thing to do." Donovan shot him a sideways glance, eyebrows folding in sympathy for the Boss. She hoped the rest of them didn't look as exhausted as he did.

"The three weren't in the same regiment but they were all British."

"Yeah?" She snapped impatiently, "What about it?"

"Is this a lead, Sally?" Lestrade asked, perplexed.

"Don't know, just, hoping maybe something beyond the fact that they were all gassed."

"They all died in the same place, one with pretty awful wounds, it was the early stages of the research."

"What research?" Lestrade asked, his confusion growing.

"Facial reconstruction. Some of the worst cases, even gas cases were sent to Queen Mary's Hospital in-"

"Sidcup." Sally finished it for him.

H-O-S-P

Lestrade fought against the surge of hope. Mycroft was looking at them intently, before returning to his phone.

"Even if we can get there, find where Moriarty's stashed him, we don't know for sure John's there."

"He is." Mycroft stepped in, startling them all.

"Sherlock has informed me, via my timely, pickup, what Moriarty said to him, more or less about why Moriarty switched his devious little gadgets.

Right. Lestrade could have slapped himself in the forehead. What John was trying to tell them, Sherlock had figured it out.

But, it didn't help stop Moriarty, not now.

"It seems as our dear arch-villain has more of a twisted sense of humor than realized." Mycroft sneered and there was a hard glint in his eyes.

"Each of the veterans were part of the, PALS recruitment, started around 1915, readying for 1916, or 'The Big Push'."

Of course Mycroft would know that, and Sally was just nodding, not even surprised.

"So, of course, they signed up together, became nauseatingly close or closer in combat, then died together. Poetic, yes, seeing entire neighborhoods, University classes, decimated?"

Lestrade shook his head. Of course.

It was just another way for Moriarty to taunt Sherlock. Not being able to save his friend when the clues were, at least to the detective, blatantly obvious.

"Sherlock would have activated the switch, assuming he would have actually gone through with it."

Sally snorted but Lestrade fixed her with an evil eye.

"Gassed his, best friend, and, I am assuming, another target, veterans probably seeing the connection."

Mycroft frowned at his phone, a muscle in his jaw twitched.

"When John finally gives in and steps off, it will set off the other gas tanks Mr. Moriarty spoke of, probably in a playground, park or school."

Stunned, sickened silence. That's why John fought so hard, tried what he could to get them the message and they'd almost missed it. If it wasn't for Sherlock.

"Since I've heard nothing from my channels of any incident, I recommend you and your, Inspector, begin fielding phone calls as to why every school in the greater London and Westminster area must be shut down. I'm sure the children will be ecstatic, despite the fact they only had a few hours left to them."

Anderson gave a heart-felt groan.

Suddenly it seemed that every phone in NSY began ringing off of the hook.

"I really, really hate you." Lestrade told Mycroft weakly.

Mycroft looked at him, amused. "You wouldn't be doing your job if you didn't, Detective Inspector."

How did both Holmes turn a compliment like that? So backhandedly?

"I have a team dispatched to Queen Mary's Hospital and the sister hospitals as we speak, assuming that somewhere in the vicinity, John Watson is still alive."

On cue, Anthea spoke up. "Third and fourth shipments arrived, the others can't get here in under 48 hours."

Mycroft sighed deeply. "We'll just have to hope that the criminal's poison is more common, though the Australian embassy did come through with flying colors. Venezuela's is being more, tetchy, shall we say."

Lestrade really didn't want to know.

"My team should be getting there soon, though it appears as though your Sergeant has a head start."

Lestrade whirled. Sally Donovan was gone.

"Her grandfather knew something about Queen Mary's, and the stigma of what Sidcup could produce. Yet she still chooses the word, 'freak'. Interesting."

Mycroft's icy tone indicated it was anything but. Lestrade was already moving out the door.

Mycroft

-On route to Queen Mary's vicinity, Sidcup. Join us there. MH-

-And if John isn't there? SH-

-Don't ask questions that you know the answer to, dear brother. MH-

-Stop counting down, it isn't helping. MH-

-Did you get the right anti-venom? SH-

-Questions, again dear brother, questions. There is a wide variety to choose from, certainly. And you're welcome. MH-

-Until John is safe and in a witness protection program I have nothing to thank you for, Mycroft. SH-

-…-

-You don't think I'll allow Moriarty to do this again? Honestly. SH 

-And if Dr. Watson doesn't approve? MH-

-He will, I'll make him see reason, as long as he alive and breathing. He _has_ to see reason. SH-

-Reason, Sherlock, and common sense left this situation when he helped you chase down your first mad man, then executed him for you. MH-

-Of course you would know that. And you're wrong. SH-

-I am not. And I will only say this once. There is nothing you can say or do that will persuade John Watson to leave your side. His stubbornness is matched only by his lunatic loyalty. MH-

-Piss off Mycroft. SH-

-Tsk, what would Mummy say? MH-

Mycroft sighed deeply. Arguing with Sherlock via text was much like arguing with him in person, except blessedly without the facial expressions and sly innuendos.

Utterly useless.

Anthea continued clacking away, their unidentified car following the flashing lights of the ambulance.

It carried over six types of anti-venom, but Mycroft feared it wouldn't be enough.

"No A & E nearby, then?"

Anthea shook head, not looking up. "Closed years ago, will have to redirect."

Mycroft cursed uncharacteristically.

"Your brother is only a few blocks behind us sir, the driver followed your orders."

Mycroft sniffed.

"And were any, ahem, incriminating photos and such destroyed?"

Anthea finally looked up, merely lifting a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

Mycroft finally leaned back, and willed the vehicles to go faster.

Seven minutes, and the Doctor would be beyond their hands. If, of course, Moriarty could ever be trusted to play fair.

"If his leg was broken, why hasn't something been activated?" Mycroft mused to himself.

Another lifted eyebrow. His PA was good at that, allowing him to follow his own, deductions, through her steely resolve.

Much like John and Sherlock. Mycroft shuddered at the very idea of something so, chummy.

And yet….

"I am sorry John." Mycroft whispered. Anthea's mouth turned down slightly.

"Only you can make Sherlock see reason."

**Sally**

The flashing lights helped as Sergeant Donovan plowed ahead. Traffic couldn't be an issue, not now.

She really didn't know John Watson that well, except for his connection to Sherlock Holmes.

Over the years she had managed to convince herself that she loathed the consulting detective, everyone did, except maybe soft-hearted Lestrade.

But did she? Really? She was an intelligent enough woman to see her own jealousy and intelligent enough to believe her suspicions that Holmes was a very dangerous man.

Still was, and perhaps always would be.

John Watson, on the other hand, gave the impression of being, not soft exactly, but open, kind, understanding.

Someone Sherlock and she herself admittedly, would classify as weak.

John Watson, in the year she'd observed him, was many things. Weakness was certainly not one of them.

And Sherlock, that heartless, cruel, conniving, arrogant, condescending Bastard, cared about the doctor.

And John showed his loyalty to the younger man in every gesture, every sentence, and every movement.

Sherlock, for all of his amazing observations, had needed to look past his own nose. When he finally did, thanks to some maniac, a pool and some Semtex, it was to see how John had protected him, helped him, and believed in him without ever drawing attention to it.

If John lost Sherlock Holmes, he would break and it would be a long time in picking up the pieces. He would do everything to try and show what an amazing man he believed Sherlock to be. He would not stop being John, however, and Sherlock's memory and image would be gentled, the harsh lines blurred through John's perspective.

If Sherlock lost John Watson, on the other hand. Sally could see it clearly, the already mercurial, autistic personality (sociopath? Perhaps, borderline, nothing can be ruled out when it comes to Holmes) would swing out of control.

Sherlock would no longer scoff at morals, he would tear them apart. He would destroy those who took John away and when it didn't bring the doctor back, he would destroy everything else.

Without a qualm. Every action, every cruelty, even being pushed over the edge would be spitting in the face of his pain. Showing everyone, especially himself, that he was right and John was wrong and caring and sentiment were terrifying, destructive things.

Just look at what they could create.

Sally pushed harder on the gas.

She had no idea of where to look but there must be something, somewhere.

The building, its wings and well kept lawn, loomed around her as she tore out of her car.

_Something, anything. Has to have pipes, a storage room, a mechanical room of some kind._

Three other cars, one black, sleek and otherwise unmarked, pulled up behind her.

"Sally!" Lestrade called just as Mycroft Holmes called out, "Sergeant Donovan!"

As she spun, she saw the half-submerged grate. It seemed miles away, but there it was.

Gas, ventilation, air duct system, a building that no one sees because it's out of the line of sight.

She hurled forward, breaking up the small group in front of her.

Across a parking lot, across a strip of grass. The lights would be on in all of these buildings, ingenious, the location. No way to tell whether a light should or shouldn't be shining.

Hiding in plain sight.

She rushed down the damp steps, nearly breaking her neck.

The door was solid, heavy and locked.

"John!" "John Watson!" She screamed, pounding on it. John couldn't answer, maybe he wasn't even in there, but still…..

"John!" She slammed her palm against the door. _Don't give up now John._

"He is coming, he's coming. He's fine. Sherlock, he's coming John."

Nothing.

Sally released a deep breath and leaned against the cold metal. Lestrade stood at the top of the stair, looking tired, older.

Then….

A ping, ping, ping…..

Ping…ping…ping.

"S.O.S." Lestrade whispered.

Sally took aim at the door lock with her gun and fired.

The two burst inside, others following on their heels.

John's face was gray; tremors racked his entire body and his breathing…

He wasn't, his face twisted in its agony trying, all other sensations forgotten.

Yet, he opened his eyes and threw his head around desperately.

Sally saw it. A pressure valve, already well into the red zone.

Primed to explode.

Lestrade was staring, horror struck at the live feed, separate, cheap looking tellys all showing what was about to happen.

The schools were evacuated of course, but the hospital wing they were looking at wasn't. He knew from Moriarty's sickness the majority of those in there. Veterans. St. Bart's.

Sally rushed over to remove John's gag.

He gasped when she finally pried it off, angry marks showing on his ashen face.

"What did he do, what's going on?"

John couldn't get the words out, so he scuffed his shoe, still barely touching the ground, against the raised metal below him.

It tilted off balance. John's legs, both of them, were fine.

Moriarty had destroyed his own device.

"Here, its here…..too." John finally gasped.

Sally looked at him in horror.

The needle inched closer and they couldn't stop it.

Mycroft Holmes, umbrella in hand, sauntered into the room like it was tea time. He nodded to Anthea who glanced up from her Blackberry, moved over the pressures gauge and began fiddling with some valves behind it.

"Stand on the platform Sergeant Donovan, if you please." She said, polite and calm as always.

Sally did, the needle danced back a bit but not much.

One more twist.

Paramedics had entered the small room now, carrying several chests.

One blessedly pulled an oxygen mask over John's face but it didn't ease his torture.

After the fourth syringe, Sally, who had the closest, terrible view of John's agony, felt her heart plummet.

John was barely aware now; even his gasping was slowing down.

With the fifth syringe and the paramedics nearly ready to open John's throat (with him still hanging) in desperation, John, still struggling with his own traitorous body, not giving up, took a breath.

"I think we should evacuate St. Bart's to be on the safe side, don't you Doctor Watson? Though I assure you Anthea and her current contact are quite capable." Mycroft addressed the doctor who looked at him, breathing finally, blessedly returning to normal.

"Q-quite." He rasped. "How did you know, which anti-venom?"

"We didn't. Luck of the draw."

John groaned pitifully. Sally made to try to release the pressure in his arms and saw the saturred handcuffs.

"Christ!" She whispered. The damage done to John's wrists was gruesome, even from this angle.

"S-Sherlock?" John stammered his pain and exhaustion coming back ten fold now that he could breathe.

"Coming, no…., I stand corrected. Here"

"Good, then would you, m-mind get-ting me down? If, it's not too much trouble." John's snark couldn't be tamped down, even now.

Extraordinary.

Sherlock Holmes burst into the small room with his usual dramatics, coat swirling, eyes flashing.

He took it all in: the syringes, the tellys, the valves, the broken platform, Sally, Mycroft, Anthea, Lestrade…John.

Lestrade was already barking instructions into his phone. They would need more than paramedics to get John out of this.

And Moriarty was still very much on the loose.

Sally stepped aside, however, from her attempts to ease the strain in John's arms. Sherlock grabbed a chest and helped John to stand on it.

Automatically, the doctor slumped forward, the horrid pressure finally being taken off of his legs, his tortured arms.

Sherlock caught him and put his arms around his friend. John couldn't hug him back just yet, but he didn't need to.

The older man rested his forehead against Sherlock's, breathing still a bit raspy, and whispered.  
>"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."<p>

"Stop it." Sherlock's deeper voice cut him off.

"He keeps…."

"Just, stop John. Breathe."

The detective's hands gripped the back of John's jumper.

Sally had never seen Sherlock Holmes so, vulnerable, and she was an intelligent enough woman to admit that her heart betrayed her. She was inescapably moved and she looked to a misty-eyed Lestrade knowingly.

Mycroft Holmes cleared his throat apparently unaffected, or disgusted by the sentiment. He was, perhaps for the first time in his life, ignored.

But Sally knew, with every fiber in her being, that her own deductions on a Sherlock without John were correct.

She was an intelligent enough woman to know that the man responsible for doing this realized it too.

**Sherlock**

He was running, running with everything in him.

He threw himself down the stairs, keeping his balance of course, and through the heavy, battered door.

John still handcuffed but without the gag, was beside Sally Donovan as she struggled to help him take his weight off.

John's face was horribly pale but his breathing no longer sounded as though he were slowly drowning.

He met Sherlock's gaze and his deep blue eyes flicked away.

Guilt, shame, an apology.

Sherlock filed it away to be addressed later. For now.

_Idiots_ He thought uncharitably.

He grabbed an opened chest, overturned it and helped John to stand. The relief in his friend's face was the only thing that finally, finally, let Sherlock's heart begin to settle.

The doctor tipped forward and Sherlock caught his weight easily. John's presence, finally here and soon out of pain. Out of danger.

_Not yet, not ever. While Moriarty and his web exist John will always be entangled in it. The consulting criminal will never let you, and by extension John go until the job is finished._

Sherlock felt his resolve steel. But it was difficult, even for highly-functioning sociopaths, when the person you had to tear yourself away from was right there, in your arms.

How could he let John go? Or rather, taken into account John's incredible loyalty, force him away.

He didn't look at Mycroft, he didn't need to, to know his brother was reading him like an open book, damn him.

John finally lifted his head and tried to make some sort of ridiculous, martyring _apology_. Sherlock quickly cut him off.

"Mycroft" Sherlock hissed, arms releasing his smaller friend but keeping his hands on his shoulders. "Are you and the DI making yourselves useful for a change?"

Thankfully, only minutes later, ladders and men in neutral uniforms entered.

They examined the handcuffs from all angles but everyone could now see Moriarty's true sadism.

Not only were they welded shut, they were welded to the _pipe_.

And the pipe was connected to Moriarty's fiendish little device. Break the pipe, the gas still contained inside would fill the room.

There was no way they could get John completely free in the meantime.

Sherlock deduced all of this in seconds. Then, all of his thoughts focused down to a laser point intensity.

He would find Jim Moriarty and he would kill him. By any means possible, even if it cost him his own life.

"Sherlock" John's soft, still raspy voice brought him back. "There might be a way to not risk the pipe."

He looked at the rest of them, hovering anxiously.

"How?" Lestrade asked carefully, as though he wouldn't like the answer.

"The blood, it, it made the cuffs a bit slippier." Sherlock blanched and John looked at him apologetically.

"The lubricant, Moriarty didn't foresee me lasting this long so I suppose he didn't take it into account."

"Get to the point, John." Sherlock's nerves made his voice snippy.

John looked at him and he was steady. A soldier's steadiness.

"We have to get my hands out but the only way to really do it safely is to leave the cuffs in place. So you'll have to break my thumbs."


	6. Chapter 6

The Equation; Chapter 6

Unforeseen variables

Disclaimer; Still the same, no money made, only grateful for the eye candy of Martin Freeman and adorable jumpers. God bless you Moffat and Gatiss.

AN; First of all, I am _so_ sorry for the delay here. I wanted this chapter to be longer also, but it truly kicked my butt. It's not slash but you can maybe read pre-slash (consider it an apology gift for making you wait). Probably one more chapter and an epilogue. I'm getting deep into my other Sherlock story which will be novel length, definitely. Again, apologies and thank you to everyone kind enough to comment, fav and watch, it means the world to me.

X +

Sherlock

"Not an option." The consulting detective barked, never relinquishing contact with John.

"Sherlock." John whispered, exhausted.

"Find another way, you're not going to submit him to any more pain." *Mycroft* the name went unspoken but was implied in every syllable.

"And have John subjected to the gas we know is still lingering?" Mycroft's crisp, no nonsense tones weren't helping matters.

"You have gas masks, I presume?" Sherlock growled, hands tightening on his friends shaking shoulders.

"Sherlock." John tried one more time, his voice a reedy whisper.

"Look at him, Sherlock." It was Lestrade, not Mycroft who finally got through to the younger man.

John's patient face was so lined that it twisted Sherlock's heart….*Heart? Really?*

One look at John confirmed. Really.

"Please, just, let's end this." He sounded so tired, brave, self-less John who had taught Sherlock so much that the detective thought he already knew.

"The pain, John…"

John's slight smile didn't help the pounding in Sherlock's chest. "I'm a doctor Sherlock, I know what has to be done."

But still Sherlock didn't let go.

"I can do it, John. If you want."

Most of the team's, and Donovan's specifically, eyebrows went up at that but John understood, he always had and always will.

_*It's all, fine._

_Thank you*_

A brief nod, reminding Sherlock of another horrifying moment thanks to Moriarty. It reinstated John's trust in Sherlock and his own self-sacrifice.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

He exhaled forcibly when a garish voice sounded out through the small room.

All of them, even unflappable Anthea jumped back. Sherlock, however, didn't bother turning around. The fury and distaste on John's face told him everything.

'_Oooh, naughty, naughty! You're supposed to be playing by the rules sweetheart.'_

Sherlock growled low in his throat. "There are no rules in this, _Jim_, and I'm done with you. Best start running now, I'll even give you a head start." The detective didn't turn to look at Moriarty's images.

'_Awww, don't be like that lover, nobody likes a sore loser.'_

"Sore loser, what?" Donovan asked. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

The televisions blared out, a toneless, mechanical voice counting down. *Ten, nine, eight*

"Bomb! It's another bomb!" Lestrade shouted.

Sherlock looked at John and knew his horror, terror showed plainly.

Mycroft glanced to Anthea who began scanning the small room, fruitlessly.

'_Say bye-bye, Sherlock! You have five seconds left.'_

"No." Sherlock ground out.

"Get out of here, now Sherlock." John whispered.

"NO!" He bellowed.

'_I need a partner, I _want_ this Sherlock Holmes. Jimmy always gets what he wants, it's the first rule you'll learn.'_

John looked at Sherlock, eyes pleading. *No, please, don't*

'_It's the only way to save him. Or I'll just blow him up now, release the gas and have you come around to me in your own time.'_

'_It's what I have, y'see. Unlike your little mongrel. I'll free you from your meaningless, limited little life by taking away what's most, ahem, limiting'_

*Two*

"Yes." Sherlock whispered. "I'll do it."

All of the televisions switched off but one.

Y = 

John

"I'll do it." John, his ears buzzing from the adrenalin and his own pain and exhaustion, jerked his head up.

"Sher-"

"Disable it, everything, and I'll meet you. I'll continue to play your game as long as you wish, by whatever rules you want."

Mycroft frowned and stepped forward but one gesture from Sherlock stopped him.

"It's as you said. Limiting, show me a real game but end this one first."

John gaped at him in horror. "Sherlock, no!" He yanked at the cuffs desperately, sending sparks of agony once more through his joints.

One long, pale spidery hand reached out and grasped a wrist. It should have hurt, but it didn't. The touch was feather gentle but Sherlock wouldn't meet John's gaze.

"You _can't_ do this, Sherlock!"

'_Are you going to listen to your mutt, Sherlock Holmes? You still have a choice you know. I'll give you a few more seconds to get out before blowing it to oblivion. Enough time for everyone, well, mostly everyone to get to safety. And isn't he a dear, so upset about the dilemma?'_

John's hatred of that, maniac, reached fever pitch. They'd never get him out in time, he was trapped. Still, more importantly…

"Sherlock, don't. Please, it's better that you leave than give in to him. I'm not…"

Sherlock's other hand reached up and grabbed John's shoulder, still so gently. He squeezed.

Then he finally met John's eyes and John gasped at the naked vulnerability there. He'd suffered these terrible hours, but his best friend had suffered as well.

All of the terror of what could have been shown out of Sherlock's normally icy persona. The detective put his hands on the sides of John's head and brushed his lips against his forehead.

Briefly, and so softly John almost didn't catch it he whispered, "Trust me." Then he moved his own pale, cool forehead against John's sweating one.

The contact, the reassurance of his hands and the deep abiding caring that went from one man to the other was all that was needed.

John said nothing more, he leaned into the contact and communicated, without words, that he trusted Sherlock Holmes explicitly. To the end of his life.

A flickering shadow of a smile replied that Sherlock understood. One more gaze and Sherlock removed his hands.

"People will talk, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't even reply, his gaze flickered from tenderness to fondness, even amusement. His hands ghosted over John's shoulders then he stepped away.

One last smirk from Moriarty and the screens flashed off.

"About time Mycroft." Sherlock growled.

"Would you rather have had me wait and allow him to detonate. This way whatever, plan, you're concocting might actually succeed." Mycroft's every tone and syllable showed his doubts.

"He probably has speakers still, somewhere. Get John out of here, now." Sherlock brushed past them and didn't turn back, even when he heard John's faint calling of his name.

Mycroft waved his team in.

"Dr. Watson, this might sting a bit, but at least your thumbs will be spared, yes?"

A quick glance at Anthea who confirmed that the pressure gauge had settled completely. The small blow torch was extremely tiny, yet effective.

Gas masks covered the faces of the working team, however, with an oxygen mask for John. Not taking precautions against Moriarty was sheer madness.

Finally, blessedly, John slumped down. The pipe had been scraped open in three places, despite the care of Mycroft's team.

Faint wisps of something sickly-sweet turned John's stomach. His entire body was shaking from exhaustion and shock.

When he was helped, no carried, just terrific, out, he could feel his body shutting down, finally giving in against Moriarty's torture.

"Hospital, sir?" A paramedic nervously asked Mycroft Holmes as another re-fitted John's oxygen mask.

"No, I have other instructions." John felt a stab of concern before finally succumbing to the darkness.

The Solution

The market was abandoned, covers flapping over empty stalls, ghostlike in the soft breeze. Spring was coming but the chill in the air still allowed Sherlock his dramatic attire, at this moment he wore it like armor against the man in front of him.

Moriarty was impeccably dressed as always; honestly how many suits did the man own? And how many times did he change them during a day?

But Sherlock already knew the answer; he knew what this man, if he could be called that, really was. A creature of pure vanity, cruelty and self-serving motivation.

Sherlock knew he probably had minions waiting close-by, despite his own instructions about no back-up. Creatures like Moriarty always had some kind of net. Trust was not only an alien concept, it was dangerous.

So Sherlock had no fear, no hesitation. He had, from the beginning of Moriarty's ridiculous and hideous games, held the stacked deck and the man dealing the cards never even knew it.

They paced each other like restless cats, Moriarty's smirk firmly in place. Sherlock kept his features schooled and icy, he'd allowed Moriarty to tap in and exploit too much from him in that area.

"Have they gotten your precious little doctor out yet, sweetheart?" Moriarty asked, teeth bore in a mocking smile.

"Undoubtedly."

"Was he feeling a bit worse for wear? It's sad, isn't it, how broken toys just aren't any more fun to play with."

Sherlock's eyes flashed then cooled again, just a nanosecond break.

"But you won't break, will you Sherlock? Not as long as I stay away from your, uh, friends?" Moriarty snorted. "Come now, possessions is a better term, isn't it?"

"You know, Sherlock, I think your heart isn't in this, but I'm willing to forgive that. I'm willing to train and apprentice you until you truly see how pathetic your existence once was. And, in the end, you'll be grateful for it."

"Will I?" Sherlock's deep voice used words sparingly, he'd had enough verbal sparring with Jim Moriarty to last ten lifetimes.

"Oh yes." A wide, manic grin that never, ever reached those glittering, snake-like eyes opened up Moriarty's face.

"I know you better than your sweet, crippled pet, or abominable brother, or even that bitch who gave you life. I know what frightens you."

Sherlock didn't want to say it, give this reptile any more power, but the words slipped out. "John is safe and Mycroft will ensure he stays that way." *Away from your tainting evil.*

Moriarty actually laughed. Its cold echo showed his sincerity.

"No, no, no precious, what would turn all your energies into jittering mania? What turns your so-called brilliant mind speeding out of control, blazing until all there is information, words, senses, until you scream for oblivion. And I could give you that oblivion, Sherlock, with minor strings attached."

Sherlock's glare could have cut glass.

"But even better, I can give you the antidote. You'll get tired of that pedestrian, shabby doctor, or one day he'll outlive his usefulness, probably trying to save you like the loyal fool he truly is. But before that, you'll tire of him, of your four walls and the prison of your own mind.

You'll get Bored. And it's what you fear most of all. "

Frigid, endless stillness. Sherlock did not argue.

"That's why you'll come with me, do it gladly and allow me to show you just what your mind can do without your meaningless and fruitless limitations. There's no black and white, Sherlock, only men like us turning it all gray with what we'll do with an undeserving, unappreciative world."

"Genius should have an audience." Sherlock countered agreeably.

"I knew you'd be a fast study." Moriarty put a hand on the taller detective's shoulder. "In the end, you always knew that I'm right."

Sherlock put his own gloved hand on Moriarty's shoulder…..

And with his other hand pulled a blade from his pocket and plunged, then slashed down the consulting criminal's right leg.

To his credit, Moriarty's barely blinked and didn't cry out in pain. He looked somewhat surprised though, as Sherlock pushed him away savagely.

He stumbled, then fell. Then he laughed, looking up at Sherlock with his eyes glittering in genuine amusement.

"Still learning, then, maybe not such a qu-…" Moriarty's face twitched, and he frowned.

"I missed the femoral artery, on purpose of course, but its close enough for you to bleed out within ten minutes. You'll lose your leg, the nerve damage which you're feeling is permanent. The dizziness and shortness of breath is from the poison that I coated the blade with."

Moriarty blinked up at him.

"You're starting to lose your sight now, mine was far more potent than the one you foolishly tried to harm John with. Let that be one of the last thoughts to ever cross your mind. I wanted it to be slower, true, more painful, but you're boring me so terribly that I have to give myself an early out."

The menace in Jim Moriarty's face darkened, there he was, who or what he truly was, as blood began streaming out of his nose, dribbling out of a corner of his mouth.

No fancy suits or silly mannerisms could ever hide it, not from Sherlock who knew the true measure of a man in John Watson or Greg Lestrade.

He kneeled down, his baritone rumbling even deeper. Moriarty started to shake and reached a hand out but Sherlock roughly batted it away.

"I know they are close, your always present network, but without the right antidote, you'll be left permanently blind, perhaps with irreversible brain damage. The leg you threatened to take out from Dr. Watson you'll lose, it's lost already."

"And you've lost all, Jim Moriarty. In the end you were nothing but a fool hiding behind a glamor of insanity and all you'll become is a husk. I've burned you away, as you threatened to do to me, and there's nothing you can do to hide from it."

Sherlock stood up, brushed off his coat and started to walk away.

A shaking hand grasped his trouser cuff. "K-Kill, Jo-John, b-bury him, piec-ces, g-gone, t-tonight, if, if, I…." Moriarty's teeth were coated red underneath his grotesque grin.

Sherlock kicked out as hard as he could, thrusting the other man back.

"No, you won't. You won't harm John Watson in any way, ever again. Not unless you want to play another round with me."

The detective grabbed the lapels of the criminal and hoisted him up, his own teeth barred. "And you don't, if the pain you're now feeling is a motivation."

Sherlock slammed his own head against Moriarty's and walked away. He heard shouts and footsteps as he turned a corner. The arrogant sod had ordered his minions to stay away during their ridiculous showdown, and Sherlock Holmes knew that the mad man would pay for it.

Sherlock smiled. Good.


End file.
